Howl

How Masturbation Helped Me Reconnect with My Sexual Instinct

I followed my pleasure and ignored my shame

I’ve always been great at simulating sex. As someone who struggled with shyness and shame for most of her adult life, there were things I couldn’t do in bed with another person but that I needed to do. So I found ways to act out some pretty elaborate sexual scenarios…all by myself.

I even MacGyvered all kinds of sex toys before I even knew what sex toys were. I wasn’t ready to have sex in high school, but I was horny as fuck, so you know…I had to get creative because using my fingers just wasn’t cutting it.

But for a long time, I thought of all this as simply a placeholder. Something to bide my time with until “real sex” took center stage. I had a lot of shame around masturbation, thanks to years of private Christian education. I genuinely thought it was nasty and perverted, but fuck it, I couldn’t live without it.

I had been taught that a sexually mature, “normal” woman didn’t need to masturbate. Men did — that was okay (which isn’t always the story, I realize, but was in my slightly liberal Christian circle). But women were supposed to be satisfied by what they received from male partners. No masturbation needed.

This belief really did a number on me. For nearly twenty years, I had a very conflicted relationship with masturbation and was eager to abandon the practice whenever I found myself in a relationship. In my twenties, the only time I masturbated while in a relationship was when sex ended in my partner’s climax and not mine.

It never occurred to me to ask for them to perhaps use their fingers on me to help me reach orgasm when they were done. And they never offered. The story was: Penis-in-vagina was the only way for a woman to have an appropriate, “normal” sexual experience and if she didn’t reach orgasm in that way, too bad. It was her body’s failure and the story ended there.

That seemed perfectly reasonable to me at the time, I’m so sorry to say, but my body would have none of it. I wanted my goddamn orgasm. So I’d sneak guiltily off to the bathroom to experience my shame-soaked climax. Shame-soaked because if I’d done things properly, I would have had an orgasm the “right” way, gifted to me generously by my partner’s expert penis. Shame-soaked because I wasn’t supposed to want an orgasm if it didn’t happen the “right” way. Shame-soaked because I definitely shouldn’t have been “resorting” to masturbation to get one.

In my thirties, which I spent with the same partner in the longest relationship I’d ever had, I almost never missed an orgasm with him (because though he wasn’t the kindest or most honest person, he was extremely generous and attentive in the bedroom) so I stopped needing to rely on masturbation to get me off. I did it only when I desperately needed a quick, no-fuss orgasm or when he asked me to do it in front of him.

But even at that point in my life, it still felt like I shouldn’t “need” to masturbate, despite the fact that I considered it totally normal that my partner masturbated daily. It seemed to confirm what I’d learned in all those Christian schools — that masturbation was such a deep need for men that it was normal for them to indulge daily, but that women should not engage in it because female orgasms only belonged in the marriage (or at least committed relationship) bed.

Through that relationship, I got to explore a lot of the things I had wanted to try but never had the courage to do with previous partners. I was even able to unpack some of my shame. But that relationship also gave me new things to feel ashamed about and edified some of the shame that I was trying to strip away.

By the end of it, I found myself questioning all of the nonsense around masturbation I had been struggling with for so long. Why had I always tried to pack it away when I was in a relationship? Why had I been so willing to believe the bullshit story that I should only orgasm by a man’s penis and that anything else was inappropriate?

After my relationship ended, I was in no hurry to find my way into someone else’s bed. Sometimes, I feel very grateful for his betrayal, because it forced me to focus on my relationship with myself in ways that ultimately were very healing. I couldn’t handle the idea of having my heart broken like that again, so I was entirely committed to creating a romantic — and even sexual — relationship with myself.

I had no interest in returning to those furtive masturbation sessions I had engaged in for the past twenty years — perching on the edge of the bathtub, or burrowing under the sheets. Without a partner to exercise my sexuality with, that just wasn’t going to cut it.

So I returned to the practices of my teen years with my elaborate sexual simulations. This wasn’t about efficiency anymore — masturbation now had to meet all my sexual needs. No more keeping my clothes on and sticking my hand down my pants. No more rushing to orgasm.

I let myself behave the way I would behave if I had had a partner in the room. I took off all my clothes. I ran my fingers up and down my thighs. I caressed my breasts. I played with my hair. I took my time.

As the months went on, I found myself more and more determined to express myself the way I had always wanted to with a partner. I’d always been loud in the bedroom, but I took it even further. No more editing what I said, or how loudly I exclaimed. No more being embarrassed if I grunted.

If I was on my back, I’d lie there naked, spread eagle, refusing to cover myself with a sheet like I normally did, refusing to let myself feel ashamed. I’d even watch myself, one hand at my breast, one hand between my legs, just the way I always wanted to watch (though never did) when my partner and I were going at it.

I challenged myself further by buying a sex toy I could ride. To this day, it’s one of my biggest regrets that I never shamelessly rode a lover cowgirl-style. I rocked back and forth, barely moving, like a good little girl, even though one of the most pleasurable acts of sex for me is being on top and feeling a partner’s penis make long sweeps into and out of me. In other words: I want to sway and bounce and let my hips dig like a spade into my lover’s body.

So I started doing that with my sex toy. I cowgirled the shit out of that thing. And it was awkward as hell for the first few weeks. I felt doubly ashamed, because not only was I behaving in a very unladylike manner, but I was doing it while masturbating, for god’s sake. Shame on top of shame.

But it felt so good, I didn’t care. And I was so over the shame, I was willing to look it straight in the eye while I hammered that toy.

Now I know how important masturbation is. It only took nearly 40 years, but I no longer see it as shameful. I no longer believe that it doesn’t count as “real sex.” I no longer even consider it “sexual simulation” — because this is actual sex I’m having and enjoying and I find it incredibly satisfying and enriching.

The best part about masturbation, for me, is that it allows me to follow my sexual instincts and proclivities without any shame. No one is watching me. No one is judging me. If something feels good, even if it triggers shame in me, I can freely explore it and work on letting go of that shame.

The more I do this, the more my sexual instinct takes over. I didn’t expect that — and it’s a wonderful gift. As I explore masturbation more freely and following my pleasure, my instinct becomes habit. It’s just natural for me to now ride the hell out of my sex toy. It’s becoming more natural for me to ignore my inner critic and voraciously pursue what feels good.

My hope is that this will bleed into my sex life with future partners. That my instinct will override my shame. That I will hop on the next lover and ride him (or her or them) into the sunset…

This article was written for Howl by Yael Wolfe, a weekly column. © Yael Wolfe 2020

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